


Light Duties

by HopeCoppice



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Abuse, Adultery, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Bondage, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Dehumanization, Extremely Dubious Consent, Forced Prostitution, Forced Sex Work, Hopeful Ending, Hurt/Comfort, I don't know how to tag for the level of broken Crowley is in this, Isolation, Love Confessions, Lust temptations, Minimal sexual description, Multi, No A/C sex, Other, Possible codependence, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Hatred, Sex but not smut, Threesome, Unspecified Effort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-16
Updated: 2020-02-16
Packaged: 2021-02-28 01:55:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,082
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22685827
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HopeCoppice/pseuds/HopeCoppice
Summary: Hell considers carnal temptations to be light duties, and therefore Crowley is given many such assignments during his time at the Dowlings'.Crowley doesn't find them as easy as Hell seems to expect. When he returns, he goes to Aziraphale for comfort.PLEASE PAY CLOSE ATTENTION TO THE TAGS AND NOTES.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 45
Kudos: 230





	Light Duties

**Author's Note:**

> I'll be honest, this came out a lot darker and emptier than I imagined, even given the premise I set myself. That's what I get for being unable to stop writing even during my worst depression days. A week or so later I feel like I want to post it because otherwise it'll bother me, but it is extremely not my usual fare so be warned.
> 
> I don't know if anyone will like it - I don't know if _I_ like it, exactly - but it's a thing. I'm not condoning Hell's methods in this fic or suggesting that either of the main characters necessarily cope with it in the best way. Hence the dead dove tag, which I have no idea if I'm using correctly.
> 
> There's a lot of self-loathing and self-blame in here too, none of which is justified. And if you've ever been in any sort of terrible ongoing situation where you've had to repeatedly go back into what you know is going to be an unsafe or abusive environment, this might trigger you that way, too. Sorry.
> 
> Anyway TLDR: PLEASE MIND THE TAGS and let me know if you think anything needs to be added.

Crowley has never understood why Hell is so keen on demons carrying out carnal temptations _personally._ Lust is considered a deadly sin, of course - albeit the least of them - but surely it would work just as well if they got the humans to lust after one another. Better, in fact - two or more lustful humans for the price of one. Hell, however, has never been good at seeing the bigger picture. 

Crowley has an easier time with these sorts of temptations than the more obviously repulsive demons; Hastur, for example, has to make himself appear clean and frogless to stand a chance of success, a fact that took him twelve centuries to work out. They're time-consuming, though, and they can be both physically and emotionally draining. Usually, he tries to keep himself busy - or at least look like he is - so his bosses will give such assignments to somebody else instead.

The fact of the matter is, though, that while he is posing as the Antichrist's nanny, he is restricted to light demonic duties. And lust temptations, by vice of involving a lesser deadly sin, fall under that heading. So one night, when Crowley retires gratefully to his room with the intention of drinking some Scotch and passing out for as much of eight hours as he can get away with, he finds a lightly-smouldering envelope threatening to set his bed on fire.

_Crowley._

_Couldn't get you on the radio. Lust assignment tonight, don't be late._

_Dagon._

There follows a name, address, and a list of specifics; Crowley groans, snaps his fingers for some less appropriate clothing, and climbs obediently out of the window.

His target, the Member of Parliament for a constituency three hours' drive from the Dowlings' London home, is staying nearby in advance of what he assures Crowley is a crucial vote the following day. Something to do with congestion charges. It doesn't sound that important to Crowley, but then he doesn't pay the charge anyway. As it turns out, the MP is far less interested in talking about politics than he is in talking about how far away his wife is, and how much _more_ distant she's become emotionally. Crowley, however, is not distant at all; he's right there at the bar, and when the MP's wandering hands find no evidence of underclothes beneath his extremely tight dress, the wife is soon forgotten altogether.

Crowley slips out of the hotel room just after 3am, feeling slightly sore and faintly nauseous. There are never sweet nothings in the beds Crowley warms; every compliment he gets is firmly addressed to specific parts of his corporation, or how flexible it is, or the added thrill of him keeping his eyes covered, even as the rest of him is spread open and exposed. He feels used, but only because he's been used. He has _allowed_ himself to be used. It's better than refusing Hell's orders.

He's not expecting to run into Aziraphale as he creeps back across the Dowlings' grounds.

"Crowley! What are you doing out here at this hour?"

"Satanblessit- angel, you can't just bloody appear out of a hedge like that, _shit-"_ He presses a hand to his own chest, hoping the drama and the swearing will distract the angel from his lack of answer. "What are _you_ doing out here so late?"

"I couldn't remember if I'd turned the hose off. I had, of course, but…" He pauses, looking Crowley up and down. "You're shivering - and no wonder, that dress can't be very warm."

"Oh. Yeah. Cold." Crowley just wants to escape the conversation, get inside and curl up under the covers until his skin stops crawling.

"Well, that won't do. Let me help." Aziraphale, Crowley realises belatedly, is wearing a long, fluffy dressing gown over his usual clothes, and he shrugs it off to wrap Crowley in it instead. It's on him before he can protest, still warm from the angel's body heat, and Aziraphale smooths it over his shoulders before stepping back. "White suits you, you know. You'd better get back inside before you catch your death."

"I'll bring it back tomorrow," Crowley blurts out, because he can't say _thank you_ , and Aziraphale shoos him away towards the house.

"Keep it, my dear. I don't mind. Good night."

Crowley returns to his room and wishes himself into warm cotton pyjamas, but he doesn't take off the dressing gown. He buries his nose in the fuzz of the collar, instead, and falls asleep dreaming of comforting arms wrapped around him.

* * *

A few months later, after yet another day of Warlock refusing to do anything he's told and then, just for good measure, attempting to flush his three-year-old self down the toilet _to visit the dolphins,_ Crowley receives another assignment. A vicar and her husband, forty miles away from Crowley's comfortable bed, apparently need tempting to forsake their wedding vows. Both of them. And, apparently, it has to be tonight.

The drive to their house takes less than twenty minutes; he knocks on the door and asks to use their phone, and they invite him in. Within the hour, the husband has one hand tangled in Crowley's hair, urging the demon on as his head is squeezed between the vicar's thighs. Crowley thinks that at least this will be a quick temptation, but they turn out to have a surprising amount of stamina.

They talk to one another, all the time he's with them, exchanging loving endearments and making sure one another are OK. They're not _rude_ to Crowley, as such, but they do seem to regard the stranger who so easily fell into their bed as more of a toy than a partner. They're considerate, but not tender. Crowley is a means to an end, an accessory to their pleasure, and he's not even sure they're really violating their vows at all if they're both so content with the situation.

By the time he leaves, his throat is sore, his voice is hoarse, and he's pulled muscles he didn't know had limits. _It's always the quiet ones,_ he muses as the Bentley roars through the streets, _always the respectable ones._ It's been an enjoyable night, in its way; the couple seemed delighted with him, and still very much in love with one another, and it's not as though they didn't take the trouble to bring him pleasure, too. It just feels hollow. _He_ feels hollow.

He arrives home shortly before five and huddles in Aziraphale's dressing gown, but it's not as comforting now that it smells of Crowley instead. He tries to ignore that, tries not to look too deeply into it, but by 6am he feels as though he's about to vibrate right out of his skin - and he'll have to get up to tend to Warlock soon. He can't go on like this; he may not need to sleep, but he certainly needs to _settle_ after the night's exertions.

He pads downstairs in his pyjamas and slippers, the dressing gown wrapped around him like armour, and makes his way across the garden to Brother Francis' cottage. Aziraphale is awake, of course; he opens the door before Crowley can even work up the courage to knock.

"Crowley. Good Heavens, what's happened?"

"Can't sleep," he croaks, "wanted company."

"Come in, sit down."

He sits, on Aziraphale's little chintz sofa, and shivers as the angel makes two cups of tea.

"You don't seem at all well," he hears from the kitchen, and then Aziraphale is handing him a steaming cup, setting his own down on a side table. Crowley expects him to sit in the armchair across from the sofa - the books stacked around it make it clear that that's his preferred spot - so he's caught off-guard when Aziraphale perches beside him instead and presses the back of a hand to his forehead.

"'M a demon," he reminds him, wishing his voice didn't sound so raspy, "we don't get sick."

"No," Aziraphale confirms, "but you really don't seem well. What would you say to tempting me to… what's that delightful phrase… _pull a sickie_?"

He doesn't think he responds, but Aziraphale hums softly to himself as if Crowley's agreed to whatever crazy plan the angel's cooking up.

"Good, that's settled. Drink your tea."

He obeys, and Aziraphale stays right by his side, sipping in companionable silence until Crowley sets his cup down. Then, carefully, an angelic arm extends.

"If you'd like to rest against me… for warmth, of course, you being a cold-blooded fiend… that's quite all right, you know."

For a moment, he doesn't move. For all his clever words, what Aziraphale is proposing amounts to a _cuddle_ , and demons don't cuddle. But it sounds so tempting, the notion of curling against the angel's side and being allowed to rest…

"Nobody can know of this," he warns, and leans into Aziraphale's embrace.

He sleeps; at some point, he's aware of opening his eyes to find Aziraphale carefully leaning to reach his old-fashioned landline telephone and affecting his Francis voice.

"Yes, I thought I should let you know… Nanny Ashtoreth arrived at my door with a fever early this morning… don't think she knew where she was… quite sure she'll be fine, but I daren't leave her… thank you. Yes, thank you, I'll be sure to catch up as soon as she's well. Please do send my best to young Warlock. Goodbye."

There's another shift of the body he's leaning on, the click of a handset being replaced on its cradle, and then a hand on his shoulder, just resting. Soothing.

Crowley sleeps the day away, and when he wakes again in the middle of the following night, he finds Aziraphale still sitting beside him, reading a book by the soft light of a nearby table lamp. Crowley sits up, mutters something about not meaning to be a bother, and hurries back to his own room ready to make a surprising recovery in the morning. If he buries himself in the beloved dressing gown for a few more hours first, he doesn't think it can be called undemonic - he _has_ effectively stolen it, after all.

* * *

It becomes a habit, of sorts; when Crowley comes home from a dissatisfying carnal temptation, he knocks on Aziraphale's door. Aziraphale doesn't ask questions, just makes him tea and sits beside him on the sofa until Crowley falls asleep on his shoulder. They don't talk about it, not when Crowley arrives, or when he leaves, or when they cross paths as Ashtoreth and Francis. Crowley learns that if he doesn't leave it too late, if he returns to his own room before the household wakes, there's no need to take the day off. As long as he gets that quiet time with Aziraphale, he can go back to being Nanny Ashtoreth, reliable and devoted minder of the Antichrist.

For three years - ten carnal assignments, most of which seem so pointless and specific that Crowley starts to wonder if someone in Hell is just getting off on reading the reports - it's enough to keep Crowley steady. Then, one night, he finds his orders on his bed as usual and sneaks out to follow them.

His target is a medical student, already a qualified doctor and now pursuing a higher specialism. Hell never says _why_ it wants someone tempted in this way, but if Crowley had to guess, he'd put his money on the young man being on course for a major breakthrough. If Crowley can distract him, open his eyes to the thrill of pursuing pleasure rather than knowledge, diseases might run unchecked a little longer.

He's not sure he succeeds on that front; the doctor ties him to the four corners of his bed, a promising sign of pleasurable intentions, and then proceeds to _study_ him. He barely even has to _look_ at Crowley before he's painting the demon's face with his release, but before Crowley can react he's moved on to examining the rest of his body with clinical, methodical movements. He takes measurements with his hands, tests the flex of his muscles and the speed of his reactions. When he touches him, it's with the air of someone learning to make a machine work; he presses all the right buttons, eventually, sends Crowley sobbing through a climax, but never once makes him feel desired, much less cared for. With a young man's refractory period, he ejaculates on Crowley a second time, unties him, and bids him a cordial goodnight.

Crowley arrives at Aziraphale's door half-wild with disgust, feeling empty and used and _broken,_ because didn't he reach completion under the doctor's probing, didn't he come apart during his anatomical study? Didn't he stay in those ropes of his own accord, though the miracle to escape would have been simple? He has no right to feel dissatisfied, let alone _violated_ , and yet he does.

Aziraphale makes him tea, and sits beside him, and Crowley burrows shamelessly into his shoulder, but it's not enough, somehow. It's not working, he's not calm, he's not at peace-

Aziraphale's hand closes gently around his own, shattering his runaway train of thought.

"You're safe, my dear. I'm here. I'll watch over you, if you want to sleep. I'll listen, if you want to talk. Whatever you need, it's yours. You need only ask, and I'll take care of you."

"Why?" Crowley can feel the tears threatening, he can _hear_ them. "Why do you let me do this?"

"Because you're my friend," Aziraphale admits simply, "and the wiliest adversary an angel could ask for. Because I care _about_ you, Crowley, so why on Earth wouldn't I care _for_ you?"

"Can- would you say nice things about me?" Aziraphale's hand stills, where it has been rubbing gentle circles into his shoulder, and Crowley rushes to correct his mistake. "Doesn't have to be true, just- you don't have to-"

"Shhhh." It's like a little miracle; Crowley falls silent and waits to learn his fate. "Get comfortable, then. I could say nice things to you for a very long time. But don't get cross if I start with _kind._ "

He hisses half-heartedly at that, and Aziraphale chuckles.

"Very well, then. You're very beautiful, is that more to your liking? And terribly skilled in the old demonic wiles, I certainly have my work cut out thwarting you. You _are_ kind, though, and thoughtful, and so funny - clever and funny, you have me in stitches when I'm not too busy wondering what fiendish plot you're concocting… oh, and you care so much about the world, even if…" That's all he hears before sleep takes advantage of his newfound peace and drags him down into a dreamless sleep.

He wakes in the morning to find Aziraphale absent-mindedly stroking his hair as he writes, his pen scratching its way across the pages of what he can only assume is a journal of some sort. He doesn't try to read it, out of respect for the kindness Aziraphale has shown him; instead, he bids him goodbye and heads back to the main house to get ready for work.

* * *

The carnal temptations slow down, for a while; Crowley reports that the Antichrist is growing up and needs more constant supervision, and Hell seems to take it into account. He gets four more assignments over the next three years, and it's not as though they're awful people. One of them makes it her mission to see that Crowley comes undone again and again until he can't bear any more; another is polite and attentive and offers him breakfast. They're not unkind - they're just not _his_ , and he's not theirs; he's just an interchangeable body they know nothing about, and he hasn't chosen any of them.

He comes home after each assignment and sits with Aziraphale, drinking tea, and he usually wakes to find Aziraphale writing in his journal. They don't speak of what brings Crowley to his door, and they don't speak of the journal, and Crowley gets on with his work. When Crowley comes in from an entirely inoffensive, impersonal fuck in a nightclub toilet and can't stop tears from rolling down his cheeks and onto Aziraphale's beloved coat, it goes thankfully unnoticed.

Or so he thinks. Because when he gets his next assignment and shins down the drainpipe, he finds Aziraphale waiting under his window.

"Not creepy at all, angel." He tugs awkwardly at his partially-unbuttoned shirt, suddenly self-conscious.

"I don't mean to be. I saw you climb out of the window. From my cottage," he clarifies, before Crowley can make any more snide comments. 

"Right. Well, is there something you want? Only I have somewhere to be-"

"Yes. About that." Aziraphale shrugs sheepishly and draws himself up to his full height. "I'm afraid you're being thwarted, my dear."

"Oh?" That's unexpected. "You're going to thwart me, are you? You and whose army?"

"I'd rather not get them involved," Aziraphale admits, "I'm trying to thwart you, not smite you. And you might as well come quietly."

"I don't do anything quietly," Crowley snaps, because he _wants_ to surrender but he can't. He has orders. Hell can't know Aziraphale is here, so he can't report that he thwarted him. He has to go.

"Michael is here," Aziraphale blurts, "I told her there was a prophecy about Satan flooding the West End with demons - or was it the East End, the translation was unclear - so she's patrolling the Thames and the whole perimeter of London right now. You can't go out there, and Hell will know that soon enough."

"Flooding it with demons?" It's the first he's heard about it. "Are you sure?"

"That's definitely what the prophecy said. I should know; I wrote it myself. You've been thwarted, Crowley. For once in your existence, admit it."

Aziraphale looks entirely too pleased with himself; Crowley feels a rush of affection mingle with his relief. The angel is right; he can't be expected to abandon the Antichrist and risk the wrath of an archangel just for a little carnal temptation. He's off the hook. 

"All right. You've thwarted me. Now what?"

"Now you can go back to bed, if you want," Aziraphale tells him, "or… or you could come back to mine."

"To… your bed." He can't keep the doubt from his voice; Aziraphale blushes bright red.

"To my _house_ ," he corrects firmly, "I could make us some tea."

Somehow, even after all this time, it still surprises Crowley when Aziraphale sits beside him on the sofa. He sips the tea Aziraphale hands him, watching the way the angel fidgets. Aziraphale, it seems, is working his way up to saying something, something important.

"You don't enjoy these assignments."

"It's work, angel. I don't need to enjoy it."

"You do, though. You love gluing coins to the pavement, you're so proud of the M25-"

"It's different. This is just grunt work. No creativity involved."

"Is it…? Crowley, when you come back, when you come to me…" The angel's gaze drops to his cup. "Is it- Are they sending you to-?”

“No.” He’s not sure what Aziraphale’s asking, but judging by his tone, it’s probably the worst thing he can think of. Murder, or something. “Nothing awful, angel. Just sex.”

“That’s- I suspected as much. The way you are, when you come here-”

“Sorry.” Crowley shifts along the sofa, putting some distance between them. “I didn’t mean to make you feel uncomfortable.”

“Really, Crowley, is that what I said? I just… they shouldn’t make you do that sort of thing. It’s not right.”

“Very little of what I do for Hell is _right_ , angel. The humans don’t suffer, if that’s what you’re worried about. I don’t force anyone.”

“It’s _you_ I’m worried about.”

There’s no good answer to that; Crowley can hardly pretend it doesn’t bother him, when he’s been running back to Aziraphale for cuddles and reassurance for the last six years. He can’t tell him it _does_ , either.

“You don’t need to worry about me, angel.”

“But I do.” He opens his arms and waits for Crowley to settle into them as usual - but there's no need for it. Crowley hasn't performed his temptation. He doesn't need comfort.

"Didn't do anything," he mumbles, but he slumps against the angel all the same.

"You thought you had to," Aziraphale whispers back, and there's something broken in his tone that makes Crowley wonder if he even means for the demon to hear him. He does his best not to show that he’s heard, forces himself to relax into Aziraphale’s arms.

They sit like that for several minutes, and then Aziraphale shifts slightly, encouraging Crowley to sit up so he can look him in the eyes. Crowley misses their previous closeness, even as Aziraphale’s hand toys absently with his hair.

“Crowley, my dear, you know you can talk to me about anything?”

“Nothing to talk about, angel.” He knows he’s tense, all of a sudden, knows he’s radiating _I don’t want to talk about it._ He doesn’t want to talk about it; he doesn’t want to think about it. There’s nothing to talk about; he didn’t have to do anything tonight. Even before, it’s just lust. It’s light duties. It’s easy.

“I just wish I could make things easier for you.”

“It’s not difficult, angel. Humans fall for that sort of temptation at the drop of a hat.”

“I meant… emotionally, dear. Every time you come to me, the light in your eyes is a little less bright. Even with your sunglasses on, I can see that. And- and I’m very fond of that light. It deserves to shine.”

“Angel, I-”

“I don’t mean to tell you how you feel, my dear. But… you’re not yourself, when you come home. And I don’t mind if you never want to talk about it, but… if you’ll let me, I’d like to comfort you, if I may.”

“I- angel, I really don’t-” He’s lying, and he’s lying _badly_ ; to save his pride, he starts again. “I’ll come to you. If I need. But- tonight, I didn’t… I don’t…”

“If you’re feeling all right, dear, of course you may go. Or stay, and I’ll sit over there and we’ll talk-”

Crowley’s not aware of moving until Aziraphale makes a startled noise and he realises he’s pulled him closer, pressing his face to the angel’s shoulder.

“Sorry- I-”

“No, my dear. If you want this, I’m more than happy to give it to you.”

“Don’t know what I want,” Crowley admits, “I just like being close to you. Don’t tease me about it.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.” Aziraphale’s hand comes up to rest on his head, not holding him, just gently present. Crowley can’t help but push up into it, like a cat seeking affection. He _is_ seeking affection, he supposes. “You know you’re very dear to me, don’t you, Crowley?”

“Something _you_ want, angel?” It’s supposed to be a joke, but his tone must miss the mark somewhat; Aziraphale reacts in horror.

“No!” The hand stroking his hair disappears, and Crowley lets out a humiliating little sound of discontent. “No, Crowley, I’m not- oh, I’ve made a mess of this, haven’t I?”

“Don’t know,” Crowley tells him lightly, “perhaps you should tell me what _this_ is.”

“I just- I wanted to show you that you deserve more. Better. You deserve more than being _used_.”

"You don't have to," Crowley assures him, "don't owe me anything."

" _Owe_ you- Crowley, my dear, there's something I want to show you. Will you be all right if I get up? Just to go over there, then I'll be right back with you."

Crowley nods wordlessly, sits up straight and watches Aziraphale cross the room with a twist of apprehension. What does Aziraphale want to show him? Something to hurt him? Something to make him more palatable? Something to help him forget? None of it seems likely; this is Aziraphale. So he's not really surprised when the angel retrieves a book from the drawer. Of course it has to be a book.

"I know you've seen me writing in this," Aziraphale tells him, as he settles beside him once more, "and I think you should read it. It might help- I want you to read it." But he's holding it so tightly that his knuckles are white.

"Are you sure?" Crowley is curious, but if Aziraphale wants to keep his secrets, Crowley will be content with not knowing.

"I am. I want you to read it, I just- oh, it sounds silly- I'm not sure I can _watch_ you read it."

That _is_ a dilemma. Crowley considers it for a moment, then shuffles along the sofa.

"Lie down, angel," he suggests, and guides Aziraphale through the movement until the angel's head is resting comfortably in his lap. "Close your eyes. How's that?"

Aziraphale just silently offers up the journal; Crowley takes it, opens it up, and begins to read. He's not expecting what he finds.

The journal is all about Crowley; his good qualities, the way Aziraphale wants to take care of him, how worried Aziraphale is about him.

_When I put my arms around Crowley, it's as if he's never been held gently before. As if he doesn't know what to do with it. He deserves kindness, but I don't think he gets it. I don't think he enjoys whatever they send him to do._

He flicks forward a few pages.

_He's so kind, and he asks for so little. He's always doing me little favours, even if I don't ask - and he never accepts anything in return, even thanks. At least he took my dressing gown, and he takes what comfort I dare offer him, now. But what horrors has he been going through, to make him accept it? It's so very unlike him; it worries me. I wish I could keep him this close when he's all right, too, when he's not hurting. I wish I could keep him safe._

He skips ahead a little further, heart pounding, until it stops altogether.

_I love him. What a fool I've been, pretending to keep him at arm's length. And now how could I ever tell him? He deserves to know; Heaven knows he thinks he's unloveable. But if I tell him now, when he's come to trust me in his vulnerable moments, he might feel I want something from him. That I'm making demands. All I want is to make him happy, and keep him safe._

He turns a few pages without really seeing their contents, on and on until, at last, he realises he's come to the end of Aziraphale's elegant handwriting. He pauses to read the last entry.

_He cried on my shoulder today. I've never seen Crowley cry, not even the day the Ark sailed - though perhaps, like me, he kept his tears until he was alone that day. I thought perhaps he couldn't cry, with those beautiful snake eyes of his. But he can. He did. It's wearing away at him, whatever he's doing - I have my suspicions - and I can't just sit here and watch any more. There are two years to go until Armageddon and this can't carry on for that long. I'm going to thwart him, next time he tries. I've already told Michael about a prophecy - I just have to let her know when I think I've deciphered a date to go with it._

_Crowley, I'm writing to you now. I don't know if I'll be able to say any of this out loud, but I need you to know that I'm sorry. I'm afraid they're using you shamefully, and you're clearly miserable about it. I've let it happen for too long, because I didn't want to make your choices for you, but it's gone on for six years now and it seems as if you're not the one making your choices either. I can't watch you fall apart any more, dear. It's breaking my heart._

_If you've read this whole book - even if you haven't, probably - then you know. I love you more than I knew was possible, and I will do anything you want of me to prove it. If you don't want to be thwarted again, I will let you go. If you want it to stop, I'll do my best to stop it. I will hold you, or kiss you, or keep my distance. I only wish I could make you understand how worthy you are of softness. Of kindness. Of love. Crowley, you are so_ _worthy of love._

Crowley stares at those words for so long that he thinks his eyes might fall out. _Crowley, you are so_ _worthy of love._ It goes against everything Crowley has always believed, and yet Aziraphale… Aziraphale is an angel, and he’s the most intelligent being Crowley has ever known. If _he_ thinks Crowley is worthy of love, then Crowley supposes there must be some truth to it. And he is _offering_ that love, the love he feels Crowley deserves, and it sounds… It sounds limitless.

He sets the book aside - carefully - and turns his attention to the angel in his lap. Aziraphale is lying perfectly still, his eyes firmly closed - so firmly, in fact, that his face is scrunched up a little. Crowley is hit by a wave of fondness; he has known for a very long time that he loves that face, that angel - but to see that beloved face crinkled with worry about what _Crowley_ might think, how he might react to Aziraphale _loving_ him… It touches something cold and hard in Crowley’s heart and threatens to melt it clean away.

“Angel,” he manages, with difficulty, and stops. He doesn’t know what to say; he suspects that if he tries to go on, he’ll cry. But Aziraphale’s eyes open, and the moment he sees Crowley’s lip tremble, he throws himself upright.

“Oh, Crowley, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said anything-”

“Don’t- don’t apologise.” He can’t bear it. “Don’t take it back-”

“ _Crowley_.” It’s barely a breath, but the fondness in it steals the air from Crowley’s lungs. “I’m not- I just- oh, dear.”

Crowley can see the panic beginning to overtake Aziraphale - his angel, his comfort, his _rock_ \- and he only knows what he would want if their roles were reversed. What he wants anyway, really, because this evening has not gone the way he expected, and he feels quite lost. He reaches out, takes Aziraphale’s hand, and squeezes it.

“You’re wonderful,” he whispers, “you’re everything- you’re my everything, angel, is- did you mean-? Do you really-?”

“Love you?” It sounds as though it’s difficult to say. “Yes, my dear. I do.”

“I- you- you don’t owe me-”

“I _love_ you,” Aziraphale repeats, his voice a little stronger. “You are special to me, and you deserve to know.”

“But _you-”_ Crowley struggles for the words. “You’re _perfect,_ I’ve loved you for- you deserve better.”

“There’s no better,” Aziraphale assures him, and then he wraps his arms around Crowley and squeezes, very gently, a reassuring constriction. “Are they kind to you, my dear? The people you tempt?”

“They’re not awful,” Crowley tells him awkwardly, “most of them.”

“But they don’t make you feel special,” Aziraphale guesses, and all the demon can do is shake his head. “I’d like to help you feel special, if I may. Not- I don’t mean anything sexual. It doesn’t ever have to be that, if you don’t want it. But I’d like you to feel valued, because I do value you. Is there anything I can do to help with that?”

“You do. Angel, you already- you’ve been saving me for years. I came home to you and you made me feel…” _Loved._ He’s known it, on some level, for all this time. “Warm,” he finishes awkwardly, and Aziraphale seems to understand.

“Then… shall we cuddle? And, if you’d like… I could tell you all the reasons I love you. Well, not _all_ ,” he amends thoughtfully, “we only have two years left, and an eternity wouldn’t be enough-”

“Tell me some,” Crowley interrupts, “please. I’m so tired of feeling like just a corporation to be passed around.” Aziraphale’s face crumples in what Crowley hopes is sympathy, but he can’t help feeling he’s disappointed him. “You… don’t mind, do you? What I’ve done- what I _do?_ ”

“No, my dear. I’m horrified by the circumstances, and if I ever meet those responsible they shall be very sorry indeed - but I don’t _mind_. It doesn’t affect how I see you.”

He shifts until they’re comfortable - Crowley’s head resting on his angel’s chest, the journal and its precious words cradled in the demon’s lap - and then snaps his fingers. Crowley’s startled by a sudden weight, but soon recognises Aziraphale’s dressing gown, summoned from Crowley’s own bedroom up in the main house. Aziraphale could have taken it back at any time, he realises belatedly, even when Crowley wasn’t literally wearing it to visit him. It’s soft and familiar, and exactly what he needs as Aziraphale tucks it around him and begins to speak.

“You’ll forgive me, I hope, if I start with _kind.”_

Crowley hisses good-naturedly, and Aziraphale begins running a hand through his demon’s hair.

“Well, you are. But you’re also strong, and fiery, and funny, and clever…”

Crowley closes his eyes and allows himself to sink into the current of Aziraphale’s words. He is home.

* * *

**Two years later**

They drift back from the Ritz arm in arm, heading for the bookshop. 

"I still can't quite believe we got away with it," Aziraphale admits, and Crowley grins at him.

"Course we did, angel. We're just that good."

"We are, rather, aren't we? A good team."

"The only team either of us has to care about," Crowley reminds him gleefully, and snaps his fingers to open the bookshop door.

Aziraphale waits until they're settled together in the back room with a cup of tea apiece before taking Crowley's hand and squeezing it.

"We're free, my dear. They can't make you do anything any more."

It's a shock, somehow; somehow, it's the first time Crowley realises that it's really over. It's _all_ over - the orders, the paperwork, the stench of sulphur and the grasping hands and the _temptations_. All of them. He will never again have to tempt a human to lust with his own body, never have to reduce himself to his component parts and pretend it doesn't break him a little inside. From now on, nobody can order him to offer himself up to anyone he doesn't want to.

It's been better, since Aziraphale's confession in his cottage at the Dowlings'. They talked, that night, until it was almost morning, first about all the good things Crowley was - that had just been Aziraphale, showering the demon with love and praise until he couldn't bear any more, until he thought his heart might burst - and then about what he wanted from then on. He had known, from the very start, that Aziraphale couldn't thwart him every time Hell tried to send him on a carnal temptation; they would get suspicious, or they would accuse him of being an inferior demon, and they would reassign him away from Warlock and Aziraphale and probably even Earth. But sometimes - twice more, in the eight temptations Crowley was assigned over that last eighteen-month stretch at the Dowlings' - Aziraphale stopped him. Sandalphon had somehow got wind of a demonic meeting behind the very hotel where Crowley was supposed to be targeting a guest, and set up a thirty-angel cordon in case it was about something they could use to win the War. Uriel and Gabriel had arranged to check in with their Earthly agent just a hair too close to the Dowlings' for Crowley to reasonably leave the Antichrist unprotected. It had worked, somehow.

And on the nights when Aziraphale couldn't spare him his duties, when Crowley had to fix his appearance and paste on a sultry smirk and set himself out like a banquet to be consumed, he held onto Aziraphale's words like a mantra. _You are so worthy of love,_ he told himself as their hands crawled over his flesh. _You are so worthy of love,_ he reminded himself as they spat on him, or pulled his hair, or simply used him as if he wasn't present in his body at all. _You are so worthy of love,_ he insisted as they muttered obscenities into his ear and called him names, as they ran him into the ground and then left him to pick up the pieces. 

On those nights, when it was all over, temptation completed and Hell's requirements satisfied, Crowley would come back to Aziraphale and allow the angel to swaddle him in both blankets and love. Aziraphale had never pushed for anything else, never even asked Crowley to return the favour, but Crowley had found himself making his way down to the cottage on his free nights, too, more and more often. He had found that giving compliments and affection to Aziraphale wasn't as hard or as embarrassing as he had imagined, and it had got easier the more he did it.

Aziraphale had seemed surprised, the first time Crowley kissed him.

_Sorry. Am I going too fast?_

Aziraphale hadn't answered out loud - not then - he'd just traced Crowley's jawline with a gentle hand before moving in for another kiss. It had taken a bit longer for the angel to feel as though he could initiate their kisses; he was so afraid of _taking_ from Crowley that he didn't realise how much Crowley wanted to give.

On the nights when Crowley came back from temptations, glassy-eyed and disconnected, there were no kisses. Aziraphale made it very clear that he didn't mind kissing Crowley after whatever he'd been doing-

_We don't have to worry about the same risks humans do, my dear._

-but that he would let Crowley initiate it if he wanted, letting him make his own choices and restoring some much-needed agency to the demon. Crowley never did; before Aziraphale worked whatever magic he wove with his soothing words and stroking of hair, he was in no fit state to desire it, and by the time he felt better he was too tired to enjoy it.

"Crowley," comes a soft voice at his ear, "are you with me, my dear?"

"Mm." Aziraphale's hand is running through his hair, gently rearranging the short strands, and it feels wonderful. "Yeah, 'm here. 'M free," he confirms, "and so are you."

"Yes, we are." Aziraphale presses a kiss to his temple. "You must be exhausted. _I_ am, and I have a brand new corporation."

"Whereas my old bones must be falling apart," Crowley teases. "I _am_ tired. Could probably stay an hour or so longer, if you want, though."

"You can stay. If you want." Crowley turns to look at the angel properly, but Aziraphale is averting his eyes. "I have a bed."

"Angel." He reaches out, touches Aziraphale's cheek and waits for Aziraphale to look at him. "Tell me what you want."

"Just… perhaps I could join you, if you wouldn't mind. We've never had the chance to just lie together and be held."

"Is that all?" He realises how that sounds - the several ways it sounds - and cringes. "I mean- not that- sounds nice, but- if there's something else you want, I need you to tell me. I'm not opposed, I just… for once, if I'm going to be having sex with someone, I'd like it to be my decision, and that means not being blindsided, it means knowing you want it. Does that-?"

"It makes perfect sense, my dear. May I have a moment to gather my thoughts? I want to make myself clear."

Crowley rests his head against Aziraphale's shoulder and does his best to relax while Aziraphale works out what he wants to say. It doesn't work; he's nervous beyond all reason, and he doesn't know why. It isn't as if he's not attracted to Aziraphale, or even as if he doesn't _want_ to sleep with him, but somehow he's afraid he'll ruin everything they've managed to build together if he doesn't know exactly what is going on in his angel's head. He needs to keep some control over this situation, and he just hopes his issues don't prove insurmountable for either of them.

"I would be pleased, and- and honoured, if you and I were to make love," Aziraphale tells him at last, "whether that's tonight, or tomorrow, or ten thousand years from now. I think you might enjoy it, too, in the right circumstances - what you went through on Hell's orders was _not_ the right circumstances, we both know that - and I hope I would prove myself worthy of your trust if you chose to pursue that. I should very much like to help you feel more at home in your body, to help you realise that I love every part of you. But I know you might never want that - you've been through so much, and even if you hadn't, some people just don't like it - and that is absolutely fine, my dear. I would never push."

"I don't want to push you, either," Crowley told him, neon lights flickering in his memory. _You go too fast for me._ "But if you wanted- I'm- that is, I- it sounds like it could be nice, with you. Warm, and soft, and exciting. Special." He takes a deep breath. "Perhaps… we could try, soon?"

"Of course, my dear, if you'd like." Aziraphale's body belies his calm words; Crowley, with his head on the angel's shoulder, can see the way his trousers are starting to tent. "You can always change your mind."

"Hmm." He nuzzles gently against Aziraphale's neck before slowly sitting up to look him in the eye. "How about tomorrow night?"

"You fiend," Aziraphale chides fondly, "how am I to focus on anything else with _that_ in my mind all day?"

"You'll muddle through," Crowley informs him with a smirk, though he suspects that if Aziraphale is anywhere near as tired as he himself is, they won't even be _awake_ for most of the day. "It'll be worth your while."

"I've no doubt of it." Aziraphale sighs. "Rest now. We'll see how we feel about it tomorrow."

"Mm." Crowley's heart feels like it's beating a million times a second, anticipation and apprehension all mixed in together. "Then take me to bed so we can lie together and be held."

And Aziraphale does.

**Author's Note:**

> I had my doubts about posting this - especially under my own pseud - but I hope if you read it despite the tags and the weirdness that you found it worthwhile in some way. Thanks for reading.


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